


The Beginning

by princekaiju



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princekaiju/pseuds/princekaiju
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's dreams have gotten much, much worse, and he's not so sure it's all being created in his subconscious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hailtherandom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailtherandom/gifts).



     Will Graham sits silently in one of the smooth leather chairs, leaning uncomfortably against the armrest as he stares indignantly at the far wall. Hannibal watches with practiced patience, resting against the hard edge of his desk. His arms are folded across his chest, body language relaxed, clear and concise. He knows Will is working up the nerve to speak, his body full of friction barely withheld beneath the surface of his already tense exterior. Being uncomfortable is not uncommon for Will - much the opposite. This time, though, Hannibal knows exactly what is broiling behind and underneath everything this man has tried to keep in check, and he can’t help but smile.

     If only for a moment.

     “My dreams are...getting.. _worse,_ ” Will manages to say, leaning back in his chair to press his fingers against his eyes, possibly trying to massage the images from them, physically suppressing what the mind simply cannot. His voice is cracked, more raw than usual. Hannibal casually wonders whether he has been drinking enough water, perhaps it is the indication of the beginning of a cold. He’s surprised Will’s immune system still operates as efficiently as it does, considering the man is almost constantly on the brink of collapse. There’s a moment’s pause, hesitation in the actual expression and figurative manifestation of what he’s about to say.

     “I don’t know if I can _handle_ this kind of...whatever is happening this time. It’s different. Not just...walking nightmares and the...the ghosts, of christmas past. This is...”

     “More involved?” Hannibal ventures. Will looks up from his hands, his eyes shifting uncertainly from the doctor’s shirt, tie, hesitating on his gaze before falling to his glasses. He lifts them, settling the frames shakily on his nose before more confidently pushing the glasses back.

     “That’s one way to put it,” he mumbles, anger seething at the back of his throat, though this frustration is not aimed at Hannibal. Not entirely, anyway. Will lets out an exasperated sigh and stands, unable to sit within the confines of the chair. Hannibal makes no move to stop him.

     “How would you put it, Will?”

     Will rests a hand on his hip, the other rubbing his chin, preparing himself for the door he’s opened. There is no turning back at this point; he has already been so open, so honest...why should he stop now?

     He turns, hands shaking slightly, caught between what appears to be a mixture of tension and excitement. Whether the excitement is positive or otherwise Hannibal can’t assume as of yet, though it’s painfully clear that control is slipping quite literally from his fingers.

     “I’m...I’m killing. Not just...not just reliving past killings, but _actively_...” He pauses, putting his hand to his mouth, his gaze cast at the floor. Hannibal doesn’t need to press. “...actively killing. And it just...I do so much more...”

     He looks as though he’s about to collapse. Hannibal leaves his perch, gently moving Will back in the direction of a chair before taking a seat opposite him, crossing his legs. Calm. Controlled. Will still has a long, long way to go.

     “Tell me about them, Will. Keeping such thoughts inside cannot be beneficial.” He holds out a hand, gesturing Will into his seat. “Please.”

 

 

      _I’m lying on my bed, hands folded over my stomach, watching the ceiling breathe. I don’t know if I’m awake or not, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t care._

     Will’s placid eyes watch water collect in small puddles on the cracked ceiling, the rain outside only muttering in the background of his thoughts. The water collects, forms into a drop, falls. Blood splashes onto Will’s cheek, his attention brought to the room. His arms are covered in blood, his clothes less stained but still irreversibly dirty. He doesn’t care. Is it his own blood? He almost instantly knows it’s not, though isn’t quite sure how he reached that conclusion.

     His legs swing over the side of the bed, his eyes on the floor, blood dripping carelessly onto his bare feet and the carpet...

     And he’s in Hannibal’s office. It’s dark, the light off, the doctor gone. Such a beautiful, empty room. It feels refreshing to be alone there.

     Rain runs small courses down the window, intricate and ever-changing patterns simultaneously created and destroyed as new drops splash against the cold glass. The only light in the room shines through that window, highlighting the drop’s path and little else.

     He watches a drop slide down the smooth glass, cold blood tracing a similar path down his forearm, collecting at the tip of his finger as the water collects against the millwork. Over the sound of the rain beating against the glass he almost misses the sound of footsteps approaching, coming towards him. Almost.

     “Do you have an appointment?”

     Will smirks at the remark, turning to face the man now standing still behind the couch, coat held over his folded arms. He notices the first minute moments of hesitation in Hannibal’s gaze when he refuses to look away. Instead he tilts his head to the side, watching the doctor quickly take in the scene in front of him. The blood has probably stained his carpet, probably transgressing some sort of etiquette. That doesn’t matter. What does matter is Hannibal’s near visible discomfort with what will probably be an intensive clean-up job later.

     “I didn’t know you took appointments at this hour,” he hums, stepping onto the couch in front of him, moving steadily, unwaveringly towards the other man.

     “I don’t.” Will smiles, for a moment, stopping just in front of Hannibal, watching the man’s calm, unchanging mask watching him back. The facade.

     His complacency boils in his stomach. The smile disappears in its entirety as he reaches up, gripping Lecter’s collar in his fists, turning to shove the man forcefully against the couch, bloodied hands leaving sharp trails of red against his now wrinkled but otherwise immaculate grey suit. He quickly slides on top, straddling his waist, watching that oh-so calm demeanor give way to a moment’s surprise.

     Then the mask is back. It only feeds the anger ripping through Will’s chest that much more, his hands pressing down, crushing, against Hannibal’s chest. He can feel the breathing begin to constrict, the weight pushing on the man’s rib cage working against his own lungs. No struggle. His arms shake slightly with adrenaline he hadn’t before realized, pressing, pressing against Hannibal’s collar before finally leaning back, breathing already becoming shallow. He traces his thumb absently along Hannibal’s throat, watching his hand with apathetic attention.

     The doctor can only watch as realization lights in Will’s eyes, his lips twitching slightly as he leans in, closing the space between them.

     “How would you feel if you were _eaten_ , doctor Lecter,” Will growls against Hannibal’s throat, his breathing rough and uneven. There’s a danger in Graham’s words and wrapped in his voice, something so inherently unstable that even Hannibal can’t predict the outcome. “Like you ate the others.”

     Will can feel the change pressed up against Hannibal’s body, a twisted, triumphant smirk pulling at his lips. Hannibal was always so calm, so careful...but he had struck a nerve. The very core, and nothing felt better.

     “Oh....oh,” he nearly whispers, his voice a mockery of soothing, leaning back to watch the mask Hannibal has so perfectly sculpted falter just enough to let him know he’s right. His hands slide up the doctor’s chest, faint traces of blood trailing after them as they head for Hannibal’s throat. “You didn’t think that I knew. That’s just _rude_ to assume, doctor Lecter.”

     He leans in, inches away from Hannibal’s face, watching the incredibly subtle struggle underneath the man’s blank expression. He’s winning. “I should’ve caught on earlier, I know. You were always....pushing me, in that direction.” His eyes are locked with Hannibal’s now. There is no trace of hesitation in his gaze, his hands moving, pressing against his collarbones, thumbs circling the arteries of his throat. His head lowers, his lips resting against Hannibal’s neck. “I understand now.”

     Oh, that heartbeat isn’t so steady anymore. Will wishes he could see into Hannibal’s mind, watch all that carefully laid control unwind at threatening paces, all because of him. He doesn’t even think as he bites down on the pale flesh of the doctor’s left sternocleidomastoid muscle, intentionally missing the artery. Blood rushes into his mouth, staining his lips and teeth. It tastes so coppery, bitter. Hannibal’s taste is lost on him, but that’s not what he was aiming for. This is a mark the good doctor won’t be able to hide so easily.

     And he hears it. The barely audible sound of Hannibal’s frustration, coupled inexorably with what could only be a moan. Will pulls back, blood dripping from his chin, his smile gone, pupils blown wide. A fight is coming, a struggle, and he knows it...but what he’s looking down on now makes that worthwhile.

     Those perfectly dark eyes have lost the calm they normally hold, instead hold uncertainty for probably the first time in a long while, betraying the rest of his face. He has no need to avoid the eyes now. They tell him all he needs to know.

     He watches the blood pump a little more vigorously from Hannibal’s neck when he clears his throat, his eyes still trained on Will’s.

     “Now that you’re...what you believe I’ve made you, you’re taking your own psychoses out on me,” he explains, sounding more collected than what his eyes give away. And he isn’t wrong. Of course he isn’t. But just the way he says it made Will feel almost sick. His stained hand rises to Hannibal’s lips, running his thumb along the dry skin, gently pressing them apart.

“Shh.”

     He slips his hand down to his pocket, slowly drawing out the utility knife he’d taken from Hannibal’s desk some time before. He didn’t know when. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was the cold piece of metal in his hand, sliding the blade down along the buttons of Hannibal’s waistcoat and shirt, relishing in the sharp, quiet intake of breath when the blade carelessly slides into his skin. He feels the beginnings of a struggle as the knife emerges, though there’s no fighting it now...any little slip could end badly, for the both of them.

     “Will..” He hears Hannibal start as his shirt falls open, exposing the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He doesn’t get any further in his thought. The knife dips into the doctor’s skin, carving a long, thin line over his breast, drawing blood almost instantly from the wound. Hannibal’s body flinches under the blade, a protest beginning to rise from his throat.

     “Shh, shh, Hannibal, don’t fight it,” he hums, taking on Hannibal’s calm, resting his lips just moments in front of the doctor’s as he presses his hips down hard, knifepoint stabbing relentlessly into the soft flesh underneath it. His voice drops into a low growl, gaze steady and dark. “I know exactly which ribs I can shove this knife between so you’ll bleed out slowly.”

     He’s shaking again though his hand is steady, continuing its course along Hannibal’s chest, shifting and weaving, his breathing shaking along with his body; this time, though, it’s not from the fear of what he might do. He rests against Hannibal’s mouth, parted slightly in a silent expression of pain, though he’s too good to show it. Will knows this. He drives the blade in deeper, forcing his mouth open that much further, taking in the sight of the doctor expressing near pure, uninhibited anguish before watching his hand work. The blade’s direction changes, continues, only the beginning of his work to come.

     “This is my design,” he breathes into Hannibal’s mouth, his body not shaking any more, taking him in a charged kiss. It’s messy and he feels a hand at the back of his head, pushing him into the right position, but he’s too involved in slicing in that last bit, the last piece of his work. He both feels and hears the reaction, the pain in Hannibal’s breath as the doctor leans up and in, driving the knife home. His own breathing falters in surprise and arousal, pulling the knife out to rest against Hannibal’s throat, new, warm blood dripping down onto his arm.

     He can’t find the words. He doesn’t need them. His free hand slides over the open wounds, mixing the old blood with the new, drawing a tight hiss from the doctor before his hand finds Hannibal’s hair, red staining more than his clothes now. Their hips move together as they kiss, feverishly, unloving and hungry. Hannibal’s lips find Will’s throat and he’s already close, waiting for that bite to come, what he knows will taste altogether sweet to the doctor...

 

 

 

     Will flinches, hard, his eyes snapping open and blinking confusedly. Hannibal watches, unmoving. The man opposite him twitches nervously as he struggles to find his glasses, once more setting them on the bridge of his nose.

     “And that’s...that’s it. It ends. In blood.”

     Hannibal nods, slow and concise, his gaze turned away for a moment as he sorts through what he’s just been told before coming to rest on Will once more.

     “And it makes you feel...”

     “Ashamed? Worried,” Will nearly laughs, an uncomfortable and humorless sound, standing up to retrieve his coat from the doctor’s desk. He pauses, his back towards Hannibal. “Sick.”

     “It’s only natural. Those images are something you often see in photos, at crime scenes, your reliving of another man’s sick fantasy...not created by your own hand.” He sighs and stands, buttoning his jacket with one practiced movement. “I suggest you take a few days off, not answer your phone. Take some time to breathe in an environment you feel comfortable or safe in.”

     Will scoffs, shrugging on his jacket. “Jack won’t like it.”

     “Jack is not your father, Will. You don’t have to come when he whistles.”

     He nods, slowly, before turning, his gaze not quite able to meet Hannibal’s.

     “...thank you,” he murmurs, very nearly under his breath. And then he’s gone, walking steadily, carefully out the door.

     Hannibal watches the doorway for a moment, absently touching the carefully hidden bandage on the left side of his throat, just barely covered by the collar of his shirt. Pain from the contact brings a small smile to his lips. Will isn’t quite ready...not quite yet.


End file.
